


Down this Yellow Brick Road

by pangodillO



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Body Horror, I will fight you for nonbinary Cecil, Intercrural Sex, Moving Out, Other, The Voice of Night Vale, all Carloses are trans Carloses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2369747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pangodillO/pseuds/pangodillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maureen doesn't turn at the sound of the door opening, at the quiet tones of Cecil's Voice.  She doesn't turn when the door clicks softly shut again either.</p><p>"I don't want this job," she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down this Yellow Brick Road

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to the Dixie Chicks the other day, just for nostalgia, and in true Every Song Is About My Fandom style, every song was about Night Vale. So I put on Heartbreak Town to see what kinds of terrible bunnies my brain would come up with, fully expecting to forget about them and happily go on with my life.
> 
> Not so.
> 
> This was written in about four hours and has had only the most cursory of edits, so please feel free to point out any mistakes. Thanks to Dee for making heartbroken noises at me in encouragement, and to Natsuko for informing me of the Latin phrase _ave et vale_.

_Today:_

The last thing they do before the move is the ceremony to make Maureen the Voice of Night Vale.

The car is packed with the things they're hauling themselves, waiting outside the radio station. The moving truck came yesterday morning; they spent the day scrubbing out the house until it looked brand-new, and slept clinging to each other on a too-small air mattress.

Cecil babbles as they move down the halls of the radio station, touching everything they can reach with one hand, the other clutching Carlos'. "That's the mixing room, and that—oh, that's Leonard Burton's award for radio excellence, he won it the year before he—Well."

They're early. Cecil moves past the recording booth, still talking, touching every familiar object and telling Carlos about them. Carlos listens, even when he already knows, even when Cecil's told him the same story a hundred times before. They only go quiet when they open the break room door and see Maureen standing there.

"Carlos," they murmur. "I'd like to... that is..."

"I'll wait outside," Carlos says, and squeezes their hand.

 

Maureen doesn't turn at the sound of the door opening, at the quiet tones of Cecil's Voice. She doesn't turn when the door clicks softly shut again either.

"I don't want this job," she says.

The break room has a sink and microwave and refrigerator and chairs and tables on one side; the other side is bare dirt studded with stones, as far as the eye can see. There is one empty space, close to where the tiles start crumbling at the edges.

There is always one empty space there.

Maureen is looking out over the graveyard. Somewhere out there is a pair of memorial stones bearing her name and the words _ave et vale_. Hail and farewell.

Cecil crosses the room and perches on the edge of a table. "It gets easier," they say, soft.

"I don't want it to get easier," Maureen says. "How can you tell me that as though it's a good thing? Do you think the kids that come in here, these bright-eyed hopeful young _kids_ looking for professional experience, or something to put on their resumes, or an enriching after-school activity—do you think they deserve this, somehow? Do you think they're less human?"

"No," Cecil says. "But they know what they've signed up for. Radio is a dangerous profession."

"As if that's an _excuse_ —"

"It's not." Cecil slides off the table and starts walking into the graveyard. They pass stones with names Maureen recognizes first. Vithya. Leland. Chad. Most of the stones only bear names, nothing else. They go out further, into a sea of names Maureen doesn't know, a sea of lives lost to community radio. Every once in a while Cecil will touch a stone without seeming to look at it.

They don't touch the first stone that reads _Cecil Palmer, ave et vale._

They don't touch the second one, either.

There are seven in all. Five are memorial stones, marking no grave, only a memory. Maureen tries not to think about what lies beneath the other two. Cecil pauses at the seventh one, pats it as though ruffling the hair of a child.

Keeps moving.

"Leonard Burton," they say, a few minutes later, pointing. "Ave et vale." They move into the next row and pick out two stones. Two rows go by before they see the fourth.

"What's the point of this?" Maureen finally demands. "So we've all died a lot. So what?"

"There are things out of our control," Cecil says. They turn back toward the break room. "You weren't meant to take over so young, and I'm sorry. But I don't have a choice. Everybody dies, Maureen. Some of us more than others."

"What do you mean, you don't have a choice? Of course you have a choice. Just let him go! He doesn't care about Night Vale anyway!"

Cecil's steps falter. They look at her sharply, they look at her like they've never looked at her before, and she does what she has never done before: she steps back in fear.

Their expression softens. "I'll just pretend I didn't hear you say that," they say, and smile.

She falls back into step with them. "Does he even understand what he's asking of you?"

"He never asked."

"What?" Her mind starts racing: emotional abuse, blackmail, kidnapping?

"He never asked," Cecil repeats, and steps back onto the smooth tile. "He thought I would be staying here. Are you ready?"

 

_Three weeks earlier:_

Carlos' hands shake.

This has been coming for months, and he's seen it and been entirely unable to stop it. All the grant proposals, grant applications, and downright _begging_ in the world haven't saved his funding. He just hasn't gotten the _results_. Forget the terrabytes of data he's collected, the incredible simulations he's programmed, the abundance of unexplained phenomena—he hasn't published anything, and after three years, the university is tired of waiting.

They're sending him back home.

He hasn't told Cecil yet. He should have told Cecil by now, but he didn't want to worry them. But now it's inevitable, and he can't avoid telling them.

He leaves the lab early. Stops by the Ralph's and picks up some fresh veggies, some chicken breast, spices. Makes dinner, because as long as he's doing something, he's not breaking down.

Cecil comes in, breathes deep, grins. "You're home," they say, delighted. "You cooked!"

Carlos nods. "I'm sorry I've been so absent this week," he says. "I... Something. Came up, at the... From the university. They."

"Carlos, what's wrong?" Cecil drops their bag and their grin and moves to wrap their arms around Carlos. "What happened?"

"My funding," Carlos says. He presses his face into their shoulder and tries to hold back the tears at least until he can force out the words. "I haven't—published—there's no results—my funding runs out next month, I can't, no one will—"

"Carlos, breathe," Cecil says, their voice so smooth and calm and persuasive that it almost eases the hysterical sobs in Carlos' chest. "You can go on without funding, can't you?"

Carlos shakes his head. "God, no. Funding is what pays my salary—it's what pays my team's salaries, pays the lab's rent, pays for the equipment. Cecil, my funding is gone."

Their hands tighten in his shirt. "They—they can't just fire you. Right?"

"No. But they can pull me back—back there. To the university. To teach, probably."

"Will they?" Cecil asks, voice small.

"Cecil..." Carlos pulls the letter out of his pocket. "They already have."

 

_Today:_

Carlos is startled from his contemplation of the nearest wall-mounted Radio Excellence award when Cecil emerges from the break room. Maureen is at their heels, looking angry and mulish and resigned; Cecil is grinning, the same empty smile they wore when they went in.

"You ready?" Carlos asks, wiping his palms on his jeans. "It's almost time..."

"Ready as I'll ever be," Cecil says, and drops a kiss on Carlos' face.

The recording booth is tiny. Carlos watches from the other side of the glass, because the space is hardly big enough for Cecil and Maureen and a manifestation of black vapor that Carlos supposes is Station Management.

"Here." Intern Vicky hands Carlos a pair of headphones. "You can listen, if you like."

Carlos fits the headphones on. Cecil beams at him through the glass. They hold eye contact as they lean toward the mic and say, "I love you, Carlos."

"I love you too, Cecil," Carlos says, even though they can't hear him.

They smile, and straighten, and the ceremony begins.

 

_Three weeks earlier:_

Cecil pulls away, just far enough to look at Carlos' face. Carlos can't meet their eyes; he has to close his, as their hands cup his cheeks, wipe away his tears, tilt his face up.

"You're... going, then," Cecil says.

"I don't want to," Carlos says. "I just... They haven't given me any other option. My contract..."

Cecil's hands tremble, pressed against Carlos' face. After a long, silent moment, they fold Carlos back in against their chest, squeezing him as though they think they can stop shaking if they hold him hard enough.

"I'm sorry," Carlos whispers into their collarbone. "I'm sorry, I don't want to go, I tried so hard. It's all I've been doing for the last week, trying to get someone interested in funding us... No one wants to. I did everything I could, I'm sorry."

Cecil swallows. Swallows again. Coughs.

Says, "We'll need to look for a place, then."

 

_Today:_

Cecil looks at Carlos, and talks. They start off in English, just the usual sort of thing they would say on the air. They switch to Spanish, and then Weird Spanish, and then Russian, and then Modified Sumerian, and then Unmodified Sumerian.

Tears build at the corners of their eyes.

Their voice is steady, even as the tears spill over, twin shining trails on their cheeks. A tendril of Station Management brushes their face, and Carlos thinks it's a strangely sentimental gesture for such an eldritch creature—and then Cecil tilts their head back, baring their throat, and Carlos understands what the tendril is for.

Even when the mist of Station Management forces its way into Cecil's mouth, their nose their ears their _eyes_ , Masters of us all—even as the black vapor pours into their body, their voice does not falter.

Carlos cries out as Cecil slumps back in their chair, head lolling, mouth open and still. Their voice—their Voice is still pouring into Carlos' ears, a language he doesn't recognize, unsupported by their lips and teeth and tongue. Station Management begins to seep out of them, turned a deep, rich purple with streaks of sparkling gold.

The Voice is still speaking, but it doesn't sound like Cecil anymore. Cecil doesn't look conscious anymore.

 

_Three weeks earlier:_

It's Carlos' turn to pull away, to look into Cecil's face and demand answers. "We?"

"We can't exactly move in with your parents, Carlos. And I'm sure Alicia would put us up for a little while, but we really couldn't impose long. We'll need a place to live."

Carlos can imagine, for himself, a little apartment near the campus. He can imagine living in a place where pens and pencils are legal, where wheat turns into neither venomous snakes nor malevolent spirits, where one can (if one can find a view past the trees) see mountains in the distance. He can imagine living in a wet, green town.

He cannot imagine Cecil there.

"But... Night Vale. Doesn't... doesn't Night Vale need you?"

Cecil gapes for a moment, and Carlos wonders what's so stunning about that idea. Then they say, "If—if you don't _want_ me to come..."

"That's not it at all!" Carlos steps in close again, cups Cecil's face and pulls them down for a kiss. "I want you with me—I want to be with you, of course I do. I just can't see you being _happy_ where I come from. It's... so different."

"But you'll be there with me," Cecil says.

"Of course I will. If you're coming. If you want to come. Cecil, everything you'd be leaving behind..."

"Everything you'll be leaving behind, too," Cecil says. "This is your home."

Carlos swallows and nods. "It'll be—years, before we can come back for more than a visit. If... if you change your mind, I'll understand."

Cecil shakes their head. "I won't change my mind."

 

_Today:_

The purple-and-gold mist reaches its tendrils toward Maureen. She fights it, waving her hands in front of her face, but it is not a thing that can be batted away. It presses into her the same way it pressed into Cecil, if more slowly, more violently; it fills her ears until she cries out in pain, then pours into her mouth.

She chokes on it. Splutters, coughs—and begins to speak. It's her own voice at first, layered underneath the Voice, each resonating toward the other until they are indistinguishable. Her Voice is the Voice.

The black mist seeps from her mouth in puffs as she talks. It drifts toward a wall, flattens against it like a stain, and then simply slips through.

"It's over," Intern Vicky says, when the last of the mist is gone and Maureen has fallen silent. "You can go in now."

 

_Three weeks earlier:_

Cecil doesn't change their mind.

Carlos keeps waiting for it, waiting for them to tell him _I'm sorry, Carlos, I just can't leave_ , but they don't. They stay late at the station, and when they come home their voice is hoarse; Carlos makes them herbal tea with honey and doesn't ask.

He's spending most of his time in the lab, dismantling everything, finding ways to dispose of toxic or hazardous samples, packing the glassware and delicate instrumentation himself. The team works around him in grim silence, destroying three years' worth of work.

Neither of them sleeps as much as they should. They walk at night, hand in hand, pointing toward familiar landmarks and whispering, "Remember when we... Reminds me of the time when..."

They mark their memories independently, too. Carlos gives up on sleep at four one morning, and gets up to find Cecil's already woken and gone. He pulls on his shoes and a lab coat and makes his own pilgrimage into the town, not looking for Cecil but finding them, now and again, saying goodbye to a place.

There are a lot of places to say goodbye to.

 

_Today:_

Cecil rouses easily to Carlos' touch. They cough, and sit up, and look over at Maureen.

Maureen says something in a language Carlos doesn't recognize. She frowns, tries again, finds English: "I'm okay."

Cecil nods. They don't say anything as they lever themself to their feet, leaning heavily on Carlos. Maureen gets up to help, but falters and sits down again.

"I can't," she says. "I... Thanks, Cecil. I guess."

Cecil flashes her a wan half-smile and, leaning on Carlos the whole way, leaves the booth.

There are interns lining the halls. They all reach out to Cecil as they pass, and Cecil reaches back to each and every one of them. None of the interns speak, so Cecil and Carlos make their slow way to the car in silence.

Carlos gets Cecil settled in the passenger seat. He takes a moment to wipe the half-dried tears from their cheeks, then circles the car and settles himself in the driver's seat. "Do you need to stop at the hospital before we go?" he asks. "Or for food, or anything...?"

Cecil shakes their head.

"All right," Carlos says, and turns the ignition. "Off we go, then."

He drives slowly through the town, taking the least direct route he can; Cecil is staring wide-eyed out the window, face pressed against the glass.

Eventually, he can't put it off any longer; he pulls onto the freeway. Cecil twists to watch out the back window, while Carlos tracks in the mirror: the Night Vale skyline, shrinking away and, finally, disappearing.

Once it's gone, Cecil turns with a huff and reclines their seat as far as it will go. The next time Carlos looks over, a few minutes later, they're fast asleep.

Carlos puts on the radio. Maureen's voice fills the car: "Parting is such sweet sorrow. Sweet like a lemon, and warm like snow. Listen up, Night Vale."

There's a pause while the intro music plays—the same intro music, relaxing the tension in Carlos' shoulders. It all snaps back a moment later when Maureen speaks again.

She's got her own rhythm, her own style—but there's something of Cecil in her delivery, too. Carlos can't put his finger on it. Maybe that's what Station Management took from Cecil. Or maybe it took their ability to see beyond the station.

Carlos drives without stopping. He leaves NVCR on for as long as the radio can pick it up, past the end of Maureen's show—"Hail and farewell, Night Vale. Hail and farewell."—and well into the zoo's catalogue of animal noises. (Carlos has never heard an elephant sound like _that_ before—but then, he'd never heard a cat sound like Khoshekh before, either.)

The station is loud and clear for the first three hours, and then it cuts out all at once into soft static. Carlos goes to change the station, find something else... but what else could fill that silence? He leaves the static playing.

 

Cecil doesn't speak or move all day. Carlos thinks they're asleep, until he pulls in after dark at an Arby's and looks over to see Cecil's eyes shining.

"Want anything?" Carlos asks.

Cecil shrugs.

"Um. Okay." Carlos reaches across and touches their hair; they lean into his hand. "I think you're still not quite okay to drive, and I'm getting tired. Let's get dinner and find a motel for the night, yeah?"

Cecil nods. They follow Carlos silently inside, and the two of them get dirty looks (and, thankfully, nothing worse) from the cashier as Carlos orders. He guesses, since Cecil doesn't offer an opinion, and unashamedly flips the bird at a couple of white guys in the corner who shout at them as they're leaving.

Slurs. That'll be something to get used to.

There's a motel just down the street. Carlos makes Cecil wait in the car while he checks into a room, then carries the overnight bag while gently-but-quickly herding Cecil to the door, which he locks as soon as they're safely inside.

Cecil flops across the bed, listless. Carlos finds the food, puts a sandwich in front of Cecil, sits next to them and opens one for himself.

He feels choked by Cecil's silence, like he's alone even with them lying right there. At least they're eating; he wasn't certain that they would.

"I'm going to take a shower," he whispers, when he's finished eating. "You're welcome to join me."

He hesitates, then drops a kiss on Cecil's brow and goes into the little bathroom. The place is old and worn, but clean and well-stocked, and the towels are soft.

Halfway through washing his hair, the shower curtain rustles and Cecil steps in behind him. Their eyes are wide, brows knitted, mouth set in an unhappy line; they crowd Carlos back against the wall and kiss him harshly.

Carlos sighs into the kiss, goes where Cecil presses him, parts his thighs for their hands. Their erection slides against him, gathering up his slick; he squeezes his thighs together and moans as they slide over his dick.

He comes twice before they do. He's not loud, but he's not silent either: gasping and panting and, at the end, sharp little _ah-ah-ah-ahhhhhh_ noises.

Even in orgasm, Cecil doesn't make a sound.

 

Cecil doesn't answer when Carlos asks if they're ready to sleep. They don't answer when he asks if they're still hungry. They don't answer when he asks if they'd like to watch some TV before bed.

He snuggles down under the covers with them, one hand trapped between their cheek and the pillow. He swallows, gathers his courage, and says, "I love you, Cecil."

They blink at him, slowly, then silently turn their head to nuzzle into his palm. It's an answer.

It's not the answer he was hoping for.

 

The next day—packed up, checked out, breakfast eaten—he puts his hand on the key and looks over at Cecil.

They still haven't spoken a word since the ceremony at the station. They're looking back at him, head tilted curiously, eyes clear and open... silent.

"Cecil," Carlos says. "During the—ceremony. Did they... that is... Your voice..."

Cecil arches an eyebrow the tiniest bit upward. Carlos finishes in a rush:

"You can still speak... right?"

**Author's Note:**

> Maureen's lead-in is a mishmash of I guess Shakespeare probably (it's a famous quote, so it was probably Shakespeare; that's how English works), as well as two different songs by FAKE?. The first is Lemontune ("If you ever need to feel it, just sing the Lemontune; it could be the sweetest flavor, if you open up your head"), and the second is Snow ("It calls me, it burns me sometimes, when I'm near, and I can't even talk, can't even walk when I'm beside her. But I realize it, and it's warm like snow.")


End file.
